Greek Mavericks: Winning The Enigmatic Greek. Tara Pammi

tilted her head to one side. ‘Surely it would be more appropriate if another member of staff took me round? You must have plenty of other things you’d rather be doing—a busy man like you, with a great empire to control.’

      ‘I don’t care whether or not it’s appropriate, Keeley. I happen to be a very hands-on employer.’

      ‘And what you say goes, right?’

      ‘Exactly. So why don’t you just accept that, and do what I say?’

      He was so ridiculously masterful, Keeley thought resentfully. Didn’t he realise how out of touch and outdated he sounded when he spoke like that? But even though she objected to his overbearing attitude, she couldn’t deny its effect on her. It was as if her body had been programmed to respond to his masculine dominance and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Her face was hot as she shut the cottage door and followed him across the beach towards his home, her flip-flops sinking into the soft sand as she scurried to match his pace.

      ‘Any questions you want to ask?’ he said, glancing down at her.

      There were a million. She wanted to know why—at thirty-five and surely one of the world’s most eligible bachelors—he still wasn’t married. She wanted to know what made him so hard and cold and proud. She wanted to know if he ever laughed and if so, what made those sensual lips curve with humour. But she bit all those questions back because she had no right to ask them. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What made you knock the old house down?’

      Ariston felt a pulse flicker at his temple as he lessened his stride so she could keep up with him. How ironic that she should choose a subject which still had the power to make him feel uncomfortable. He remembered the disbelief he’d faced when he’d proposed demolition of the old house, which had been rich in history. How people had thought he was acting out of a sense of misplaced grief after the death of his father. But it had been nothing to do with that. For him it had been a necessary rebirth. Should he tell her that he’d wanted to raze away the past along with those impressive walls? As if believing that those dark memories could be reduced to rubble, just like the bricks. That he’d wanted to forget the house where his mother had played with him until the day she’d walked away—leaving him and Pavlos in the care of their father. Just as he wanted to forget the parties and sickly-sweet stench of marijuana and the women flown in from destinations all over Europe—their given brief to ‘entertain’ his father and his jaded friends. Why would he tell Keeley Turner something like that—when she and her mother had been exactly those kind of women?

      ‘New broom, new era,’ he said, with a hard smile. ‘When my father died I decided I needed to make a few changes. To put my own stamp on the place.’

      She was staring up at the wide glass structure. ‘Well, you’ve certainly done that.’

      Her cooing words sounded speculative—the instinctive reaction of an avaricious woman confronted by affluence—but that didn’t quite cancel out the pleasure Ariston got from her praise. Or stop him thinking how much he’d like to hear that soft English voice whispering some very different things in his ear. Was she one of those women who talked during sex? he wondered. Or did she keep quiet until she started to come, gasping out her joyful pleasure into the man’s ear? His lips curved into a speculative smile. He couldn’t wait to find out.

      He gestured for her to precede him though her wiggling bottom made it difficult for him to concentrate on the tour. He showed her the tennis court, the gym, his office and two of the smaller reception rooms—but decided against taking her upstairs to each of the seven en-suite bedrooms or, indeed, his own master suite. His throat tightened. Demetra could do that later.

      At last he led her into the main sitting room, which was the focal point of the house, carefully watching her reaction as she was confronted by the sea view which dominated three of the massive glass walls. For a moment she stood there motionless—not appearing to notice the priceless Fabergé eggs which lay on one of the low tables, nor the rare Lysippos statue which he’d bought from under the noses of international dealers in an auction house in New York and which had sealed his reputation as a connoisseur of fine art.

      ‘Wow,’ she said indistinctly. ‘Who came up with this?’

      ‘I asked the architect to design me something to maximise the views and for each room to flow into the next,’ he said. ‘I wanted light and space everywhere—so that when I’m working it doesn’t seem like being in the office.’

      ‘I can’t imagine any office looking like this. It looks...well, it’s the most stunning place I’ve ever seen.’ She turned to face him. ‘The family business must be doing well.’

      ‘Reassuringly well,’ he said blandly.

      ‘You’re still building ships?’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘My brother didn’t tell you?’

      ‘No, Ariston. He didn’t tell me. We barely had time to reacquaint ourselves before you dragged him away.’

      ‘Yes, we’re still building ships,’ he affirmed. ‘But we’re also making wines and olive oil on the other side of the island, which have become a surprising hit in all kinds of places. These days people seem to value organic goods and Kavakos products are on the shopping list of most of the world’s big chefs.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else you want to know?’

      She brushed the palms of her hands down over her shorts. ‘In England you said you were expecting guests this weekend.’

      ‘That’s right. Two of my lawyers are flying in from Athens for lunch tomorrow and there are five people arriving at the weekend for a house party.’

      ‘And are they Greek?’

      ‘International,’ he drawled. ‘You want to know who they are?’

      ‘Isn’t it always polite to know people’s names in advance?’

      ‘And handy when you’re trying to research how much each is worth?’ he offered drily. ‘There’s Santino Di Piero, the Italian property tycoon who is coming with his English girlfriend, Rachel. There’s also a friend of mine from way back—Xenon Diakos who for some reason has decided to bring his secretary. I think her name is Megan.’

      ‘That’s four,’ she said, determined not to rise to the nasty digs he was making.

      ‘So it is. And Bailey Saunders is the other guest,’ he said, as if he’d only just remembered.

      ‘Her name seems familiar.’ She hesitated. ‘She’s the woman you took to the opening night of the photographic exhibition, isn’t she?’

      ‘Is that relevant, Keeley?’ he questioned silkily. ‘Or, indeed, any of your business?’

      She shook her head, not knowing why she’d mentioned it, and now she felt stupid—and vulnerable. Embarrassed by her own curiosity and angry at the unwanted jealousy which was making her skin grow heated, Keeley walked over to the window and stared out unseeingly. Was she going to have to spend days witnessing Ariston making out with a beautiful woman? See them frolicking together in that amazing infinity pool or kissing on the beach in the moonlight? Would she have to change their bedsheets in the morning and see for herself the evidence of their shared passion? A shiver of revulsion shot through her and she prayed it didn’t show. Because even if she had to contend with those things—so what? Ariston was nothing to her and she was nothing to him and unless she remembered that, she was going to have a very difficult month ahead of her.

      ‘Of course it’s none of my business,’ she said stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

      ‘Didn’t mean to what?’ He had walked across the room to stand beside her at the window and she found herself inhaling his subtle citrusy scent. ‘Check out whether or not I had a girlfriend? Find out whether or not I was available? Don’t worry, Keeley—I’m used to women doing that.’

      She struggled to say something conventional. To make some witty remark which might dissolve